Einstein Essays by Friends

Imagination is more important than knowledge

Luca and the Magic Stick

Luca stands atop the driveway, A baton in his hand, Conducting unheard music, From a very silent band. The stick becomes a serpent now, And winds around his leg, Next a magic flute sends it Snaking to its bed. Then hes rolling down the highway, On 18 scorching wheels, With a giant wooden gear-stick, And smokey on his heels. Then suddenly a telescope Is lifted to his eye As a hundred kamikaze planes Fill the southern sky. Next you see a wizards staff, Held tightly in his palm, And it disappears the aeroplanes As the Wizard waves his arm. Then a warrior with javelin, Out in search of meat And he spears the mighty mastodon Then drags it home to eat. Now hes taking careful aim With a rusty 3 0 3 At a giant, angry, grizzly bear Stuck half-way up a tree. Next hes on a battlefield And he holds his banner high Advance! Attack! To victory! The soldiers hear him cry.

And then you see him swinging At a speeding leather ball. It leaves the bat like lightning, And clears the garden wall. Now the sticks an upright Daniel Carter taking aim, He kicks and hears the whistle blow Luca wins the game! Next hes standing on a heaving deck, Rod bent for all its worth. As a massive blue-striped marlin, Starts to dance across the surf. Then Luca hears a voice Calling him inside His heart is filled with sadness As he lays his friend aside. But as he walks he starts to smile And a clock begins to tick For theres always time tomorrow When you own a magic stick.

Einstein's Private Journal (excerpts)

Taken from the period of May 3rd, 1946 - July 4th, 1946

3 May 1946 - Still constipated. Have asked for more roughage and am now drinking four glasses of prune juice a day. Disgusting stuff. If no improvement by tomorrow I may visit VanCleef for some help. Enema? My assistant, although very able, has curious inhibitions. I am haunted by my God and Dice comment. It never pays to just blurt an opinion. Werner still very hurt. I suspect he harbors ill-will. I think my throwing out this idea of a Grand Unifying Theory was a stroke of brilliance - people will expect the impossible, while I can get on with my real work, unimpeded. Today I baffled an entire class of promising students with more of my semi-coherent musings. They write everything down so earnestly, it almost makes me pity them. 7 May 1946 - Feeling very bouncy again, rode my bicycle around in a circle fifty-two times during midday, and counted the pigeons. Princeton is so ugly! I feel closer than ever to making a breakthrough with my toaster-umbrella, but worry about a power source. I will not use nuclear, although Enrico has sent me a very strongly worded letter in favor of this solution. I asked him by return post to show me some numbers. That always throws him. I dont suppose Ill hear from him for a month. 8 May 1946 - From the heights to the very depths. Terrible cramping, but no peristalsis. I threw a chalkboard eraser at McCoy today for questioning my insertion of the sub-derivative of time cubed into my latest garble - hit him right on the cheek. I apologized, and he was chastened. But my temper gets so very short when I am not regular. Spent thirty minutes in the mens room, but only managed a passable portrait of Stalin on the stall. I shall let someone else fill in the caption. Exhausted and out of sorts. Have taken something. To bed. 9 May 1946 - A good day, thank goodness. Toaster-umbrella almost discovered by the maid. Had to raise a great fuss about my papers, which was silly-sounding as we were in the basement storage room, where I do my real work in the evenings. But she believed me. I gave her one of my good handkerchiefs, because she began to cry. I doubt Ill see it again.

14 May 1946 - Very pleasant weather, more or less. Warmer. Rode through several puddles by mistake (still counting pigeons). I think Ive ruined my shoes. Enrico has replied, much earlier than I had expected. His numbers, at a glance, looked good. I shall review them tomorrow. Was temped to confess all in classes today. There is a new young lady sitting in who shows great talent, and has such lovely ankles!!! I felt very bad about the nonsense I was scribbling on the board. She is obviously gifted: I am sure she saw through me. She was staring very unashamedly. Should I tell her about the real project? I had a bit too much wine at dinner tonight (Leo Szilard is visiting, and the rascally Hungarian is such an energetic, warm fellow, I couldnt say no). I fear tomorrow's headache. 15 May 1946 - My attractive student turns out to be an emissary from Congress, looking into Communist activity on campus. What do I know of such things? Everyone dabbles. I felt quite a fool. Very glad I never mentioned my real work! Headache from last night tolerable. Saw Leo off on the bus. Looked for shoes in town, but found nothing I liked. Had a telephone call from Oppenheimer, who was worried about his teeth. I gave him the name of a good dentist. He apologized again about the bomb. I think he is getting something of a complex about it. Poor fellow. And those hats! 7 June 1946 - Great progress. The toaster-umbrella opens up smoothly, without the violent recoil that lifted Hennys hairpiece off last month. The hutch for the heating elements also opened and retracted in the correct sequence, but rather creakingly, and needs real work. I cut my thumb a little. Another call from Szilard, wondering would I like to join him, along with some others, during the summer up in Maine. Ill think about it. Got a note from Truman - would I like to hear him play a new piece hes been practicing on the piano? Honestly! He is determined that we should play a duet together, I am certain. How to put him off? 9 June 1946 - Classes went very badly today, Im am very pleased term is ending. I suppose I could just call it all off until next year, but I feel obliged. I was asked by several leaving students if I might pose with them for photographs. Of course I agreed. Midday, and three FBI man arrived, asking to see me. This caused a stir! It was Truman again, through Edgar, suggesting that a nice evening of music at the White House next week (Wednesday, six sharp) would be a good idea. I agreed with a show of enthusiasm. Got home and pulled out all the new listening devices I could find.

Hoovers men are not very good at this, but give them time. I practiced my violin a little, trying to learn the piece Truman has been on about. This is the price of freedom, I suppose. Was rather rattled, and did no work on the big project. Irritating. 21 June 1946 - Have decided to join Leo, along with a new member of the faculty, Bob Dicke, Joanie, Franz and a few others up in Maine. Spent most of my day packing. Took twenty minutes to find my swimming trunks. Tried them on: they fit, but I feel foolish in them. Is tartan still in? Oh well. Still unsure about pigeon numbers in the quad. I think that must be expressed as an unknown. The device I have spent so long working on in the basement has proven deeply disappointing. I spit upon that toaster-umbrella! I almost put out Leos eye yesterday, and the elements grew far too hot, almost burning my mustache, and making my eyes water. Leo very effusive in his comfort and praise, at least for the boldness and ingenuity of my ideas. Lovely fellow. Who could not like him? 30 June 1946 - Maine! Fresh air and mosquitoes. Also tiny, very irritating blackflies, which the locals have another name for. They seem to have different names for everything, but that is a very American trait, and must be indulged. But we are on the coast, and the sea-breeze is refreshing, and clears the air of these pests regularly. Took the train up with Bob Dicke, Leo and a new friend of his who strikes me as a very obvious FBI plant. He wears a suit all the time, and rarely removes his hat. And since when does Leo socialize with people named Greg who know nothing of our work? Edgar is getting lazy. I am still filling notebooks with noodling about this Grand Unification Theory. I think I do this more to annoy Werner than anything else. He sent me a very insulting paragraph he clipped from an article he wrote for one of the papers in Austria. Was this a challenge? Frankly, I understood very little of it. He mentioned Jung, which annoyed me. Jung, Freud, Adler! A pox on them all! 4 July 1946 - Yes! On this most American of days, amid all the noise and good cheer, despite the fact that we German and Hungarian-speaking immigrants outnumber the real Americans at this place by about three to one, I had a breakthrough. A very American notion, which, should I carry it off, might bring more accolades, and repay all the sweat, rage, and wasted thought due to the dismal failure of my toasterumbrella (which was, I felt, the apotheosis of American ingenuity). Greg, our friend from the FBI, who must travel with at least six blue suits and three hats, and perhaps three ties (I still am not sure of his shoes - two pair or three?), was

enjoying what he called a frosty one (insipid American beer) and standing on the dock when Leo, not a thin man, dashed past him holding out a dripping ice-cream for a young local lady he has taken a shine to. Sad really, but beside the point. Leo tipped Greg right into the ocean. Greg seemed to take all this with good humour - I am sure he realizes that we know what he is - a spy - and that none of us are Communists or anything like it. Certainly not after Farnham and I began that conversation about the importance of a diversified stock portfolio the other night, or our heated discussion about which banks offer the better rates, long and short-term. (I also became quite passionate about the new Studebakers, which surprised me as I had rather considered myself above such concerns. I really like the way they look. But I dont know how to drive! It seems I am more complex than I thought). More to the point, Greg climbed up the ladder, soaking wet, his hat crumpled up in his left hand. He was smiling, and made some joke about Leos weight. His suit was so wet his shoulder-holster was clearly visible. My mind flew away! I was in transports, and lost the thread of things. I shall begin work on an automatically-inflating sea-suit as soon as I am able. I have already started some drawings. I wonder: should I ask Greg if the FBI might use such devices in the field as they say? How to ask without tipping my hand? There are immediate concerns: what if a heavy rain triggers the inflation? I must take into account the overall water pressure upon the suit. And the bulk? How to hide the bladders within the fabric? Or will I need such ordinary air-bladders? Is there a new breakthrough in textile technology just over the horizon? My mind is full of ideas, as busy as any reactor core, particles bouncing around wildly, heating everything up. Oh, the sheer joy of creativity! And so to bed.

Tim Weatherill October, 2012

The Purpose of a Party Without exception, my experiences of spending time in the company of friends at birthdays, dinners, drinks, parties, events, concerts, or just hanging out have been positive. I would like to think people would say the same about my presence. When I look back at the parties I have thrown and attended I can hardly encapsulate in words the interest and fun these have generated. But recently I was asked, by someone I know very well and shared many parties with, What is the purpose of a party? i.e. what function does a party serve or what are the reasons for parties? Some of the simplest questions are the best and I can honestly admit I dont believe I have ever considered this question prior to it being raised. Now the obvious answer to the question on the purpose of a party is; to be with people and enjoy their company. I mean this is the most basic and simple answer I can think of which I believe most would agree without hesitation. That is, until I actually uncovered the real answers according to a number of people I interviewed with precisely this question in mind. There is Mark; a successful IT director who felt that the purpose of a party is to be able to be accepted into peer groups. This admission I can verify from my direct experience of his behaviour at parties. He is such a natural recluse with a constant worry of his worth on a personal level (in business he is as sharp as a pin), and for Mark, the purpose of being around people was to get some constant reassurance he was accepted as a people person. You see his demeanour and thoughts were consumed with his work and with his profession IT stuff - and any social aspects of his personality were always under suspicion by his mind. In his mind, he did not so much enjoy the experience of invitation and attendance as much as the confirmation that these two factors afforded him for his own self esteem. For Mark the purpose of merriment, banter and good cheer among friends was largely secondary. Mark, and I suspect many more like him, are the types of people where the ability to engage socially with people is not straightforward. Their natural state would be best be in the company of books, gadgets and information. They do not easily integrate into groups and nor do they have the skills and interests in such which would deem contact with people as easy or fun. Instead, they find interaction and the concept of it, very weird and unnatural, so a party, while they know this intellectually to be a fun and interesting concept, has implications of their needed to be careful around too much attention. Hence people where social interaction is second nature, when they spot one of these reclusive types immediately recognize their discomfort and inability to quickly connect with people.

With this information noted, I got even more intrigued with the other answers I may be able to elicit to the question, and continued my enquiry. Another friend of mine, Liz, is a lot like me. I mean to say she seems just like me on the first blush. I listened to her thoughts and took notes without careful attention. I started to pay a lot more close attention when she went into detailed recollections of those parties where she had the most fun. As she recounted her experiences and the events that took place an extremely interesting pattern emerged. For I could see from how she characterised the best parties, that these were those where she had received the most overt and continuous attention. As an only child to a rich father (perhaps sugar daddy?) and an aloof mother, her drive in the company of friends or among strangers at a social gathering was to command the interest of as many people she could at once. No matter who those people were, she was highly interested in their interest in her. As I was writing and capturing her comments, my mind was cast back to the times when she reported after the fact that particular partied had bored her. I remembered these distinctly and the pattern seemed again obvious. Some of the parties I enjoyed the most, and would stake a large bet that everyone else did too, were some of the worst for Liz. For these were the times when she had been around a number of people who did not pour their attention and interest on her, but instead were independently flitting around and laughing without the need of a focal point, i.e. Liz, to direct the fun. Liz, like Mark above, has a need for something at a party before she walks in the room. But what she needs is entirely different. Her need is for self-esteem and is completely reliant on certain actions taking place at a party, namely, that she receives compliments, attention and is surrounded by people verbally applauding her. Instead of casually making her way around the room and finding people and situations which interest her, she is more devoted to targeting people and looking for the types of people she preys upon most; the types of people whom she can command their attention. So this thought leads onto the types of people whom Liz and Mark are looking for at a social gathering. Are there corresponding types who need to supply what Mark and Liz need as much as Mark and Liz need what they seek? Would everyone who fulfilled their purpose at a party necessarily mean the party would be considered as a good bash by all who attended? In short I believe that yes the fulfilment of the joint purposes of the attendees at any given party is proportional to the reports of favour of such a party. In the cases of Liz

and Mark, many of those would be attention givers to Liz, and re-assurors for Mark, are just as needy giving these behaviours out as Mark and Liz need them supplied. For example, there is Christine, whose drive to throw and attend parties is completely loaded with the thought in mind of somehow repairing or replenishing the supply of reassurance and attention for people just like Mark and Liz. Christines raison d tre of a party is to be able to be seen to be the one who is providing the source of what many of the party goers need. She chooses her attendees carefully figuring out who is in need of what, and who can supply which aspect. Like a crossword puzzle fitting neatly together she looks to interlock the people attending parties matching their needs with people with who can correspondingly give the right stuff back, obviously once they have their chosen juice, i.e. their need from the party whether that be esteem, attention or whatever. I have cast my mind back and tried to find any and all the patterns I could those who attend for the needs of others, those who are needy themselves, those who like to spoil either group and withhold what they know they ought to give and so on. It would seem that over the various parties I have attended and given, there is a strong correlation between reports afterward of a fabulous time or great party and the fulfilment of the needs of the party goers. That a party is simply a social gathering where people mix would now seem a naive assertion, albeit probably the one most would blindly assume and answer on enquiry of the purpose of a party. Perhaps I am unaware of my own needs from a party? Maybe I too am one of those who has particular needs? All I do know is that the purpose of a party is far from the drink and merriment that occurs as a matter of course. There is without doubt a lot more going on, and to that end I am now in a constant study of the subject. I will throw myself at all kinds of parties in the interests of research and conduct many more candid interviews. I look forward to my study and will certainly learn a lot more. So until my next report, all that needs to said is, Cheers! See you at a good party soon

Sydney races Stovepipe trousersThe height of fashion. Dashing and cashed up, Sashed Beauty Queens espousing Moontime dreams, colorful Things- unspeakable trends, The lavish fiends with Throats bubbling cocktail juice; Sprucing their hair in the toilet. Hazy in their stares, matching The next person's black tights, Lipstick and iPhone to theirsQueers of the night, Bar frights, the city lights A match to a cigarette. Inhale, a Pretty lady steers Your eyes to the right. You place your fork down -The ribeye steak dribbling Red jus onto silverAttempt to sip the cocktailit's empty. You're staring through the glassThe latest freakshow passed The table- sweet black waves Of perfume overwhelm the smell Of tropical juice and you Place down that tumbler to walk at her on heat. Feet shuffle the bobble-walk, Balking at your state you gyrate A bit, dip then skip as if it Is intentional and that you are dancing, Chancing the fact that her better Judgement won't tell her

You're pungently intoxicatedStop. Look at your watch11 o clock It stated after waiting for the Hour hand to merge back into one, 'Done' you mumble, looking in the Mirror- horror it's happened again. There's blood rolling out of each nostril And pretty soon it'll be on your lips And you'll taste blood, Too salty and warm And bright in the white light Of the toilet. On your lips it's a Wet red lipstick to Lick, spit and dribble a bit in the sink, But here comes the man To throw you out you think and You're mad because Why can't a guy Just be drunk and Have a bleeding nose In the toilet?

The Buddhist and the Beekeeper July 1953 They stepped down from the Constellation and into the bright sunlight of a London mid-summers day. As the pair reached the bottom of the gangway they were greeted by members of the British Parliament all determined to be photographed with the heroes (or at least Hillary) and the most determined of them all was the 78 year-old Prime Minister, Sir Winston Churchill, who stood at the front. After taking an age to pass along the line of dignitaries, Hillary came to two aging women. The first was George Mallorys widow, Ruth, and the second was Lilian Irvine, the mother of Mallorys climbing companion, Sandy Irvine, on the ill-fated expedition of 1924. They stood with pinned hats and their white gloves nervously clutching handbags. When Hillary came to them, tears cut lines down their powdered cheeks as they quietly whispered their gratitude. Hillary had completed the job that their men could not. Someone amongst the bubbling thousands that crowded the perimeter of the airfield cried Hip hip hurrah! and the rest shouted their acclamation. As the cheers filled the still afternoon, the smiling Hillary raised a laconic arm then strode purposefully to the back of the long, black Bentley that would take him to Buckingham Palace and a grateful Queen. * Five Months Earlier. John Hunt sat outside the office of the British Foreign Secretary, Anthony Eden. The oak captains chair he occupied was upholstered in green leather and the room smelled of cigars. As it was the weekend, the usually busy halls of Whitehall were quiet and the secretarys desk was empty. Opposite him, two long crossed halberds hung on the wall and a large portrait of King George sat between them; a black rosette was attached to the frame. A heavy door swung open and the Minister motioned Hunt inside. The handsome, moustachioed Eden was 13 years Hunts senior but the pair knew each other well. Hunt had served in Military Intelligence during World War II and had regularly reported to select members of the Cabinet. After the formalities, Eden came to the point. John, I just wanted to make sure everything was on track with this trip of yours. Hunt assured him that it was. Eden nodded. I hear youve added Hillary to your team, he said carefully. * *

Edens only previous experience with New Zealanders had been as a Captain in the Kings Royal Rifle Corps at Ypres where he had found them to be almost absurdly courageous and, perhaps as a consequence, quite alarmingly prone to getting shot. Eden continued, I hear hes very much his own man. Not always inclined to play by the rules. Originally, Hunt too had had doubts about Hillarys suitability for the expedition but hed been swayed on meeting him by his confidence and his impressive stature. He swore he could have laid three axe-handles across the mans arms and shoulders and still found himself wanting for wood. Hillary would add considerable expertise to the expedition and help get the chosen team to the summit. Hunt explained this to Eden, who nodded thoughtfully and said, Well, its your call, of course, old man. He lit a cigar and went on. John, weve known each other for a long time and Ive always found you to be most, he paused for effect, reliable. In three months time our new Queen will be crowned and I cant tell you how well thought of a man might be should he be successful in popping an Englishman on top of this mountain of yours. Its important for the people John. Theyve been through a lot. It would be a Coronation gift without peer. Im sure Her Majesty would be very appreciative. * * *

The convoy picked its way through the dusty streets and towards the Old Kathmandu Hotel. The traffic, which seemed to consist largely of ancient drab-green trucks, moved at a snails pace. Hillary, seated in the passenger seat of an old Landrover, soon saw the reason for their hesitant progress. The driver steered around a cattle-beast in the centre of the road where it had obviously collided with one of the ubiquitous trucks. Hillary looked down. Thousands of flies dotted the carcass and its guts spilled from its body like a split bag of onions. A large crow sat on the road gobbling at the viscera. It cocked its head and stared as the New Zealander passed by. At the hotel, Hillary tossed his duffel on the cot in a tiny room and headed to a meeting in the hotels high-walled courtyard. The climbing teams were confirmed. Tom Bourdillon and Charlie Evans would have first crack at the summit. Next in line would be Alfred Gregory and Wilfred Noyce. Hillary and the sherpa, Tensing, would form the third team in the unlikely event that the first two were unsuccessful. Duties were assigned. Bourdillon, who had built a new closed-circuit oxygen system, would have Hillary as his assistant in preparing and maintaining the breathing apparatus for the duration of the expedition. Once considered unsporting by the famous George Mallory, oxygen was now deemed essential for any expedition that hoped to stand atop the worlds highest peak. Even Mallory had eventually decided that oxygen was needed and employed it when he and Irvine made their final attempt nearly 30 years ago. Even that was not enough. The pair had never returned.

Hillary knew the numbers. Above 25,000 feet there is only a third of the oxygen that exists at sea-level; not enough to support a human for any length of time. Climbers refer to it as the death zone because, once in it, your life simply leeches out of you with every laboured breath. The oxygen-starved brain produces hallucinations and guarantees poor decision making. It was the poor decisions that killed mountaineers. Anyone wishing to summit Everest would have to travel four thousand feet (three quarters of a mile) vertically into the death zone, to the very edge of the stratosphere, and then the same amount back. * * *

It took sixteen days for Hunts group to wind its way up the steamy Kathmandu Valley to the Tengpoche Monastery. The thirteen climbers were supported by 350 porters who Hunt insisted on referring to as coolies. When he needed something done he simply called, Coolie! reasoning that it wasnt exactly important which one responded just as long as they could speak a bit of English. Most did, in fact, speak quite passable English; having absorbed it by a sort of osmosis after years spent carrying the luggage of the British. Tensing was particularly fluent and spoke with the kind of accent that, in another place, might have marked him as a gentleman. Hillary was relieved to find his climbing partner so easy to communicate with because, as he said, there was nothing worse than climbing with someone who couldnt be told what to do. He assumed that Tensings ability to clearly understand instruction was the reason Hunt had selected him in the first place. He was sure the man was a passable climber but that skill hardly set him apart from the rest of the natives. Base Camp was established 2 miles from the start of the treacherous Kumbu ice-fall; a 5 mile-long honey-combed labyrinth of jagged ice. Full of dead-ends, crevasses, and breath-taking escarpments, it took a week to establish a safe route that could facilitate the establishment of the subsequent camps. After that, began the back-breaking and monotonous task of ferrying supplies progressively higher up the mountain. After three tiring weeks, which passed largely without incident, it came time for the final push. Bourdillon and Evans would leave at first light. The team assembled for dinner in Hunts large canvas tent. Hillary and fellow New Zealander, George Lowe, were the only ones present who didnt call themselves British. As usual, and at Hunts insistence, Tensing dined with the sherpas. The Kiwi pair did not much appreciate Hunts long winded, droning speeches. The man had a rather tiresome analogy where he likened the assault on Everest to a cricket test match. He broke the task down into days and sessions, each of which had to be won. Several times, Hillary had been on the verge of asking why it was that Len Hutton hadnt been picked to lead the expedition but, so far, had thought better of it.

Thankfully, for once, Hunt had seen virtue in brevity and the atmosphere at the meal had been one of high excitement. It was, without doubt, the most experienced and best equipped Himalayan expedition ever mounted. The snow conditions were excellent, with little avalanche danger, and the weather was ideal, although there would be the usual high winds above 20,000 feet. The successful tests that had been conducted with the new breathing apparatus added to the general air of confidence. Hillary said little at the gathering and excused himself early. He walked across to one of the shelters that had been set aside for storage. Pulling aside the tent flap he found Tensing sitting cross-legged on the floor mending a torn pack. He positioned himself opposite and began working on the oxygen equipment. Several moments passed before Tensing spoke. Hillary, what do you do when you are not climbing mountains? What do I do when Im not climbing mountains? Well, I think about climbing mountains Tensing. But if you mean, How do I earn a crust? the answer is that I am an apiarist. I keep bees. He added helpfully. There was silence again as the pair continued their tasks. Eventually, Tensing lifted his head. He had an earnest look on his face. Hillary, our Buddha loved bees too. He said that, as a bee gathers nectar and pollen from the flower, he does no harmand yet there is honey. Tensing smiled. Hillary frowned. Look Tensing, no one is more in awe of the honey-bee than I am and I certainly dont wish to offend you but I can tell you exactly why the bee does no harm to the flower. It is because they have evolved together to form a perfect partnership. The flower is designed for the bee and the bee is designed for the flower. Its called symbiosis everybody wins. You may choose to believe that there is some divine reason for it but I believe in the science of it. Natural selection. Darwin wrote about it a hundred years ago and I thought that the news might just about have made it to Nepal by now. Actually, Hillary admired bees for many reasons, not the least of which was the fact that they would happily die just in order to hurt a person for an instant. After a while, Tensing spoke again. Hillary, when I was nineteen I spent a year in a monastery training to be a monk. The teachers there said that Chomolungma, your Everest, is the Goddess of the Universe and is not for climbing. They teach that bad things will happen to those who try. That is why I left. Hillary looked stern. What a load of poppycock. Im not surprised you left. A man can only swallow so much superstitious claptrap. It gets in the way of things; things that have to be done. Tensing smiled then spoke again.

Perhaps there is, he paused to prepare the word, sym..symbiosis in what we do too. Damn right there is Tensing! I believe that I was made for this mountain just as much as she was made for me. Hillary laughed and then Tensing joined him. The next morning the camp was a hive of activity as the chosen pair set off in an attempt to make history and bring glory upon themselves and their Queen. As the rest of the camp shouted their best wishes, Bourdillon and Evans entered the icefield. The journey to the top and back would take two full days, including a treacherous night spent in Camp IX at 28,000 feet. In the meantime, the rest of the team would continue to move supplies up the mountain to the various camps in case they might be needed for a second assault. Around midday on the second day Hillary and Tensing found themselves at Camp V with only Bourdillon and Evans above them. Having dropped the new supplies they sat down to eat lunch and enjoy a cup of salty yak-butter tea. You should not be surprised that Hunt excludes you from our mealtimes, Tensing. That is alright, Hillary. The man is a bigot and a fool; a typical example of English in-breeding. Born into money, sent off to a public school, into the army, off to India and now he hopes to make a triumphant return to London where hell no doubt be awarded a peerage for his troubles. And do you know what? He wont have lived a single day of his own life. Hillary spat the words. Tensing looked confused. But surely, he is a great man? Hillary looked hard at Tensing. The great man calls me a colonial and its intended as an insult. The problem with people like him is that they live their lives in straight lines. From the day he was born his future was decided. His whole life has been a series of ticks in boxes as he did everything that was expected of him. A real life story isnt like that. A mans story shouldnt be a straight line but more like an arc. We know how our story starts and we have a fair idea how it might finish but in between are a series of moments, each of which should be assessed and addressed. Those are the moments that take you away from the straight and narrow. You have to be ready to seize those moments and extract what you can from them. Thats a real life; a real story. Look. said Tensing What? Look! Tensing was pointing up the mountain. Two figures were walking towards their camp. Hillary could tell just by the way they moved that things had not gone well.

Bourdillon and Evans were disconsolate. After their progress had been slowed by problems with the oxygen system they had simply run out of time and strength at the South summit. After enjoying a hot cup of the local tea with Hillary and Tensing the pair continued their gloomy descent. Gregory and Noyce would make their attempt the next morning. Hillary watched until they disappeared from sight then began shoving supplies into his pack. He turned to Tensing and said, Lets get cracking. Tensing was confused. The pair had just carried the supplies all the way up to the camp and now Hillary seemed determined to carry them all the way back. Hillary, what is it? What is wrong? Tensing, this is one of those moments I was telling you about. Get your kit together. Were going up. Climbing is second only to the game of golf in the way in which behaviour is governed by a system of etiquette. What Hillary was proposing clearly contravened those unwritten but universally understood rules. Tensing protested; saying that not only were they jumping the queue but they may also be endangering others should they decide to mount a search. Hillary knew that another supply run was due at Camp V that afternoon so he wrote a note that went some way to appeasing Tensing on at least one count. As far as mounting an assault outside of Hunts carefully planned order of things, Hillary was less concerned. The weather is good. We are in the perfect position and it will be another day before anyone else can get to where we are now. By then, who knows what the conditions will be like? We have a responsibility Tensing and that responsibility is not to Hunt. I am happy to be judged by history. Tensing was still reluctant but had little choice other than to do the job for which he was chosen and that was to support the New Zealander. After assembling their supplies and checking their gear, they began to climb. Climbers will tell you that the ascent of Mount Everest is not so much a technical task but more one requiring, in addition to good weather and the best equipment, immense physical fitness and a robust (but not foolhardy) sense of selfbelief. In this sense Hillary, was particularly blessed and their progress was steady. Late in the afternoon, after picking up oxygen at the various supply camps along the way the pair arrived at Camp IX. Even though they had used oxygen for the last two hours, the pair were exhausted as they pitched their tent on an uneven icy slope and devoured a meal of honey, sardines, biscuits, apricots, dates, jam, lemonade, soup and luke-warm coffee. In addition to their dependence on the breathing equipment, they were also burning more calories than they could ever hope to replace. After an uncomfortable and largely sleepless night the pair rose at first light only to find Hillarys boots so frozen that it was another two hours before they were thawed sufficiently to be forced onto his feet. Now it was necessary to hack out

every single step the pair would take on their journey to the top. After three hours of brutal climbing, they found themselves higher than anyone had ever been, but faced with a daunting obstacle. Before them was forty vertical feet of sheer rock partly encased in a sheet of thick ice. It was Hillary who found the way up. At the right hand edge of the face the ice sat out about 4 feet from the rock forming a kind of threesided chimney. Putting his back to the rock and driving his cramp-ons into the ice Hillary began to force himself gradually up the chute. Progress was slow and agonising. The Kiwi was forced to stop for minutes at a time to recharge his aching muscles. Mountaineers call any substantial obstacle that breaks the natural incline so severely, a step, and this step would become famous. When Hillary eventually hauled himself out and over the top he had already decided that it was a significant enough feature to bear his name. Hillary dropped a rope and helped Tensing to ascend in more comfortable fashion. It was not far now but, still, every step had to be carved from the snow and the men gasped with each blow. At this height, the thin air of the jet-stream screamed across the snow. Sweat emerged on their brows only to immediately freeze while their exhaled breaths did the same in and around their respiration masks. However, their progress was as inexorable as it was slow. It was five hours after they left camp when, with a few last, lusty blows, the objective was achieved. At precisely 11.30am on May 29th 1953, Edmund Hillary, beekeeper of Auckland, thrust the handle of his ice-axe deep into the crusty snow of the highest point on Earth and straight between the ribs of Andrew Comyn Irvine; Sandy to his friends. Hillary was elated. From the summit he could see 100 miles in every direction and he surveyed his domain with pride and satisfaction. He demanded Tensing take a photograph of him on the summit but the sherpa could not fathom how to operate the box-brownie camera that Hillary had carried to the top. With undisguised frustration, Hillary snatched back the camera and took a picture of Tensing instead. At least it would be obvious to all that someone else had been there to take the photograph and one was necessary for evidence of their feat. After around a quarter of an hour of self-congratulation, Hillary reached down to retrieve his pick. It refused to budge. He twisted it and leant more muscle to the task. Still nothing. Finally, with a huge heave, and in a flurry of white, the mountain reluctantly gave up her secret. As the frozen, foetal form erupted from the snow, Tensing uttered a cry and fell spread-eagled, face-first into the mountain. Hillary knew immediately that it was Irvine. He had seen the climbers photograph many times in dog-eared copies of the British Climbing Journal. The man had been blessed with an enormous, quarter circle of a nose that billowed from his face like a filled spinnaker. He remembered reading that Irvine had performed creditably at Cambridge as a member of the coxless four and he could see how, even in atrophy, Irvine might still provide good direction at the back of a boat.

Hillary stood, panting. The dry air had, over time, sucked much of the moisture from Irvines body and he now weighed about half his original poundage but it would still take all of Hillarys strength to move even the mans frozen husk. Grabbing the body by its feet, and using all the leverage his long frame afforded him, Hillary managed to drag the lump, in fits and starts, about 15 feet to the edge of the summit where, finally defeated by a small bank of snow, he fell gasping to his knees. He felt, rather than heard, the rattle in his chest. Mike Ward, the expeditions doctor, would have called it the first symptom of high altitude pulmonary oedema. Hillary just knew that he was starting to die. The low airpressure was taking its toll. Time was short. At some stage, Tensing, still prostrate, had seen fit to lift his head. He stared at the body and at Hillary as if they were both ghosts. Hillary waved at him. Get over here! But any words were lost in the howling of the wind and the rasping in his lungs. Eventually, Tensing seemed to snap out of whatever nightmare he was in. He gathered himself up and slowly walked over to stand beside the remains of Sandy Irvine. Hillary showed him what had to be done. The two men, one resolute, one hesitant, hunkered down with the toes of their boots resting against Irvines back, their backsides at their heels and their hands planted behind them. Hillary looked at Tensing and nodded. Both men straightened their legs with as much force as they could muster. The Englishmans frozen body slid to the top of the bank, then disappeared. The only two people left on the mountain-top scrambled to their feet to see the corpse sliding away and gathering pace. About 100 feet down the mountain Sandy Irvine became airborne and crashed squarely onto the ridge that divides two mountain kingdoms. At this point, Irvines head snapped cleanly from his neck and tumbled down one side while his body slid away down the other. It would be many years later, during a sold-out speaking tour of North America, that Hillary, when asked what he thought of the route selected by the 1924 expedition, commented wryly, that he knew Irvines mind was on Nepal but that perhaps his heart lay with Tibet. Tensing looked as though he might cry. Chomolungma wants something from us Hillary. Tensing held out his battered tin mug. Hillary stared then, reluctantly, began to fossick in a pocket. Eventually he withdrew a clump of soiled and sticky barley-sugars which he dropped into the cup. Tensing was down on his haunches now and muttering a prayer as he dug a small hole and placed the offering gently within. He smoothed the snow over and stood for a moment. Then, without a glance at his companion, he turned and trudged off the mountain top. It is true that men of an adventurous disposition can endure long silences without feeling ill at ease. Instead, there is a kind of internal conversation. It is a

discussion with the Universe. On this occasion, however, the silence was an uneasy one and the wordlessness sat heavily and seemed to force their feet deeper into the snow. In time, they came again to that glistening step which Hillary would call his own. Once more, he found himself having to provide the heft for the task and, after making sure Tensing was sufficiently attached by rope, he lowered the sherpa over the edge. About halfway down the face his progress halted and he dangled in space. Glancing down, Hillary saw that the rope had become wedged in a crack in the ice by virtue of a knot he had not seen. Hillary was always meticulous with his ropes and silently cursed the sherpa for his lack of care. Getting down on all fours he peered over the edge to see how far down it was that Tensing had stalled. His ice-axe lay next to the rope as he looked down. Tensing stared plaintively back. We have all experienced moments that seem like eternities but perhaps Tensing could be excused for thinking this moment of stasis particularly long. As Hillary stared down at the dangling climber, stuff flew between them. For a few seconds, perhaps it was longer, thoughts, imaginings, potentials and consequences rang across that cold divide. The golden thread of fate was stretched between them; pulled thin and taut as a harp string. Tensing would later recount that Hillary used those long moments to gather his strength before heroically yanking the obstruction free from the crack but he knew better. He told the story in that fashion not to save Hillarys dignity but in order to preserve his own. They continued to descend in silence; one man contemplative, the other morose. The golden light of the late afternoon sun picked out the pair as they emerged from the Kumbu ice-fall, three thousand yards from Base Camp. Hillary could make out the fluttering prayer flags around the tents. At first, he had objected to the flags on the grounds that they were a hazard to navigation but was forced to concede the point moments before the porters were about to trek all the way back to Kathmandu. He could also make out people now. Their descent would have been watched with much anticipation. The air will be buzzing, he thought, and they will all be ready to claim some tiny party in my triumph. And what a triumph it would be. The timing had been impeccable and with the Coronation due in just a few days he was sure his achievement would be recognised with the honour it deserved. The sort of honour a man could dine out on for a very long time. Doors that had previously been shut would be opened. He would travel the world telling tales his of his daring exploits. Children would learn the story of the humble Kiwi climber at the feet of their primary school teachers. Perhaps hed go into business or maybe just take a few quiet directorships in banking and industry. A pillar of society. There would, of course, be a book which he would write himself. He had already settled upon Pulling It Off! as the name of the volume that would tell the story of his singular prowess. He would live out his life in comfort and fame and, when he eventually

passed, speakers at the inevitable State funeral would cry that a great kauri had fallen. Hillary. Hillary.. He turned, annoyed at being disturbed from his reverie. Tensings eyes were filled with tears. Hillary, we have done a bad thing. He glanced up at the peak which was now lost in dark cloud. Chomolungma is angry. She will want to take from us forever now. For this day she will demand much. Perhaps all that we love. Hillary! Hillary! This time the voice came from the direction of the camp. Hillary spun on his heel to see George Lowe and John Hunt walking towards them. He waited. The supremely fit Lowe started to charge up the slope leaving Hunt in his wake and, as a consequence, arrived too breathless to speak. Lowes right hand clutched the tomahawk hed used to hack steps up the icy approach. The two men stood and regarded each other. Then, slowly, Hillary raised his goggles, smiled broadly, and said, Well, George, we knocked the bastard off.

-- Tony Flewellen

Arabesque When I was fourteen, A Thousand and One Arabian Nights transported me from a 1970s childhood of porridge, draughty rooms, homework and the theme music for Coronation Street to a magical realm where I lived in palaces, wore harem pants and slept in canopied beds guarded by eunuchs. When I appeared on alabaster pavilions, my eyes, though gauzily veiled, were of such beauty that princes would shower me with gifts as they vied for my hand. My passion re-ignited as soon as I booked tickets to Damascus (for a visit before the recent uprising). Even though I no longer need to escape suburban mundanity, rereading A Thousand and One Arabian Nights swept me away once again to Bedouin tents, magic carpets, contests with Ali Baba thieves, and the prospect of being granted wishes by genies who, these days, look like George Clooney. To bring myself back to earth I forced myself to read Syrian Guide-books, Old Testament Bible stories and biographies about aristocratic women who lived among the Bedouin. Guidebooks were accurate with their descriptions of the oldest city in the world. Concrete urban sprawl, chaotic traffic and two and a half million people, including a Palestinian settlement and Iraqi refugee camps, have replaced the oasis of greenery, in the middle of the Syrian desert. Nevertheless Arabian Nights still exist in the ramparted old city with its labyrinth of alleyways and souks (bazaars) laden with ancient treasure: brocades, scimitars, ornate glass teacups, Samarkand marble, embroidered silk, Damascene cloth, and perfume in hand-blown glass bottles. There were piles upon stacks of wooden boxes inlaid with mother-of-pearl, carpets from Turkmenistan, brass scales, figs, dates, and an enormous variety of nuts and sweets. There was also lingerie - stall after stall of the type of undergarments youd expect to find in a harems laundry basket (not a sports bra in sight). It was all brightly coloured silks and satins with sequins, diamantes, ribbons, and lace. I even spotted a purple bra with silver tassels dangling from each cup; a replica of the one Id seen as a fourteen-year-old when a handmaiden wore it as she danced for the Sultan. While I rummaged for my own souvenir, I watched a pear-shaped grandmother buy transparent panties with matching pink bra. As she haggled with the merchant, she brandished the XL items as if they were flags at a parade, unlike me who made my transaction quietly and then hid the garments in my bag.

The souks also sold other booty; masses of glitzy scarves, bright rainbows of fingernail polish, jewel-studded hair accessories, earrings that dangled down to ones shoulders, belts with buckles the size of Persia, rings designed by 1970s New York pimps, and evening dresses that would seem ostentatious at Mardi Gras. After seeing the copse of finery, I acquired new respect for the aloof Syrian women, most of who wore shapeless coats and concealed their hair under drab cotton hejabs (headscarves). What titivation lay beneath their long robes I wondered? Although I wasnt successful in my search for eunuchs and genies, I did manage to track down a lone Whirling Dervish who performed for diners in the Umayyad Palace Restaurant. Despite the venue, his dance was authentic. He wore the ankle-length heavy white robe with weighted hem that caused his skirt to rise into a perfect circle as he twirled rapidly, eyes closed in a trance-like state. He also wore the requisite burgundy hat - a cross between a fez and a flowerpot. A small band played hypnotic Sufi music on traditional instruments and drums. I recognized the music from my youth, when Id spun with Dervishes on the precipice of a rugged mountain. Judging from the money that changed hands, the Arabic audience was equally thrilled with his performance. These days Grand Viziers are a dinar a dozen. They work in Syrias restaurants commanding armies of waiters. Once patrons are seated the presiding Grand Vizier makes unnecessary commotion as he orders his brigade to bring menus, water, and khoobz (bread). Once brought, the Grand Vizier snatches the item, leans excessively close his breath reeking of cumin, nicotine and sour milk - and with a flourish, places it in front of you. Grand Viziers are often pretentious. They can also be scheming and cruel. I remembered this as I watched them demean their staff. A waiter who precipitately took the lid off my bottle of water was publicly chastised and sent to get a new one. Another was severely reprimanded when he dropped a spoon. All hell broke loose when a kitchen boy allowed a plate to slide off an overloaded tray as he descended a steep marble staircase. Within seconds of the clatter the Grand Vizier was beside him, gesticulating and shouting in Arabic, ordering him back up the stairs to the kitchen. Would he be sacked? Beheaded? All the time I was in Syria I looked for magic lamps. Theyve been elusive since the time of the Mamluks; for good reason. One day, while negotiating for lapis lazuli earrings I spied a lamp. It was on a ledge near the ceiling. When I saw it, an inexplicable urge overtook me. I walked around the merchant, stepped onto the

bottom of a rickety shelf and pulled myself up as far as possible. By holding onto a thin ledge with one hand I managed to dislodge the lamp with the other. As it dropped into my hands a powerful current washed through me. The feeling was similar, but much stronger than the tingly feeling you get after a scrubbing in a Hammam (public bath). Before I could say Aladdin, the merchant seized it from my hands. He held my lamp near his chest. Not work, he told me defiantly. We measured each other for a moment. I believe he was anxious that I might grab the lamp and run off, but I would never have done that. I was merely thinking of a way to get him to sell it to me. The steel in his eyes made it clear he would never part with the lamp, so I wished him good day and walked off. Thats when he did something very unusual. He let me go without any attempt to sell me anything, not even to resume negotiation for the earrings. Magic lamps can still have a surprising effect on people.

JJ Somerset May 2010

Hell hath no fury like a child shorn My son Luca, aged 3, is sitting on my knee in a line of men -- excited because I will soon get my head shaved to raise money for the Child Cancer Foundation. My wife is nearby, really busy as the company we own is a sponsor of this Shave your Lid for a Kid fundraiser. The event is attempting to break the 1-hour world record for number of shaved heads in one hour. Before I let you know if we broke the record, Id like to go back a couple of years to when Luca himself was bald. Born with a ginger knot of hair, thick and strong, it fell out and was all but gone by year one. By the end of year two he had a reasonably full set of normal brown hair but mum was not one for cutting. Her rationale was that having been two years in the making, the most she could bring herself to chop, was one lock to put away for a baby book - as my mother did for me. I still have that lock. I would say that the word tabu would best describe the boy needs a haircut topic for my wife. So the stage is set; there are six haircutters next to six seats on a platform in the city centre, and some 500 people are cued to help break the record. All have sponsor sheets in their hand and a crowd of 3000 are watching with anticipation. The whistle blows and the first set of heads are set upon with speed and vigour accompanied by loud, spontaneous applause from the crowd. Celebrities and political figures are giving us their cash in exchange for what looks like an agricultural engagement with the cutters - perhaps sheep shearing better describes the activity. Dead hair is brushed into waiting bins by the hairdressing team and soon its my turn to join the other five 5 sheep on stage, in a line. At this time Luca sits on my knee, excited to witness Dad about to be shorn. As the cape is quickly pushed down over my head and tied rapidly around my neck - there is a record at stake - a question is hurriedly thrown at me, as Luca adjusts his position back on my lap: "Would your son like to have his head shaved too?" Our company is a major sponsor. I try to think why he shouldn't join in. I know my wife would immediately say "no way". But Im his Dad and I decide to let Luca choose. In as much time as I can delay the cutting crew I quickly sum-up for him the

pros and cons so he can make a free will choice. After blurting out six seconds of balanced views to my 3 year old, I ask him, "Well do you?" "Yes" he replies. I felt slightly guilty knowing he could not know what was in store for him. Never having had his hair cut, he hadnt experienced the usual trepidation many kids have. And so it seems before his "yes" is uttered -- they set-to, cutting a 45cm swathe through his silky hair, down to the scalp. From the crowd, in some cruel coincidence, my wife looks up at the exact moment the first track is cut through Lucas hair. She had no idea this would happen. She elbows her way to the front. Seeing her, I start to sweat. Szzzzzhhhhhhhhhnnnnn, another swish of Luca's angelic mop is mowed from his head. I look again at wife trying to think if there is anything else she could possibly be thinking, rather than what is showing on her face. I can read disbelief, then sheer hatred. The third swathe completed, Luca's locks are tumbling to the stage floor. My mind races as I rack every corner of reason to find a possible explanatory escape. Is there any possible upside to this? I can tell that this is going to be a very serious conversation; her eyes are showing her reason and physiology reacting violently inside her and there will be a very dismal outcome for my future from this event. Knowing her for over 20 years, I know my assessment is not mistaken and is likely even optimistic. "There, all done", said the cutter. Luca looks angelic; like a beautiful young Dali Lama. I take him and bravely step down off the stage to face my wife, feeling numb and almost nauseous from the reaction I am about to receive. One last delay before the storm of fury hits as we pass through the photography tent, and our photo is taken. Dad and son freshly shaved, we cant keep our hands off each others scalps. Laughing and in awe of each other, we feel like two bald friends, finding each other when the rest of the world has hair. I experience strange sensations from this feeling, from anticipation of the rage I have unleashed in my wife and the contrast of Luca being happy and excited.

I catch my wifes teary eyes as we exit, like sheep through the stock yards into an open green field. "I was devastated, she explains, wiping a tear from her cheek, seeing my child's first real hair falling to the floor and was contemplating all the ways I was going to bring pain down on you. Just then I noticed a boy standing beside me, about 8 years old, with a shaved head too. I exclaimed Oh, so you were up on stage too? The boy looked up at me and quietly said, "No, I have cancer and the chemo made me bald. Arm in arm we left the event. It had been quite a day. Oh and we smashed the world head-shave record and hope in some small way, we contributed to children like that courageous eight year old, watching from the crowd because he had no hair left to shave.

Of broomsticks In my flying dream early this morning, this time I flew pretty high. Flying always begins from the ground -- I never discover myself already in the air. My flight often takes me where I intend to go, but not always. I have hit the ceiling many times in a room unable to get out, resulting in the bad guy reaching up and grabbing my foot. I gently float when I fly; quite at odds to when Im awake and vertical, walking with purpose and speed. My legs can weigh me down, but with practise (and if a dream is not being perverse) I can overcome that by imagining myself higher, by degrees. This morning I land on a platform about 9 stories up, where a bunch of people are working. They seem a little surprised to see me land through the window, so I decide to show them how to fly. I admit Im a little smug but generously let them know that anyone can do it. Im careful not to demonstrate by flying back out of the window as its not that reliable and can quickly turn into a falling dream. So I rise gently in the room and do a couple of laps to show them how its done. Next I find many people flying towards me, passing me. Its a bit embarrassing; I wish they had told me they knew how to do it all along. However, theyre using broomsticks. I call out to them that broomsticks arent needed. Where do you put them when you wake up? What a hassle to carry them around! The body itself is perfectly adequate to surf-float. The other flyers look at me but dont answer. Somehow a broomstick is left for me to try once they have all passed. After calling out that I dont need it I finally give it a go. And thats when I find out about broomstick flying. With a broomstick, you can point the end of it in the direction you want to go and it will go EXACTLY in that direction, STRAIGHT there. No floating in the general direction of somewhere. The flight is not as fast as you see in movies, but it is certainly purposeful and I found, easy to line up the front handle to the target (or direction) you want to go to. I had no sensation of a sore backside or balance issues. Once I straddled the broomstick, the focus was all on the front of the stick to determine direction. Its simple, not at all shaky like I imagined and a total breakthrough in terms of control, something Ive been missing in my many years of sleep-flight. I realise now why broomsticks have remained in mythology for centuries I cant wait to try it out when Im escaping the bad guys and may even be brave enough to

give one a go from a height, although Ill have to see at the time if Im game enough for that. Awake, I Google Broomstick flight and up comes ancient pagan ointments which used to make chanting women experience hallucinogenic effects, like flying. I also find obscure scientific theory, like anti-gravity:

With each theory I feel the dream slip away a little more, a gradual fading of my crisply clear sensations on the broom. So I close my laptop to the clarification of others, the demand for explanation, and instead, find a satisfying snippet from a man 2500 years wiser: Do you think you can take over the universe and improve it? I do not believe it can be done. The universe is sacred. You cannot improve it. If you try to change it, you will ruin it. If you try to hold it, you will lose it.

Verse 29, Tao Te Ching

The end of the world E=MC2. It was Einsteins inspiration of the relationship between energy and matter that led to the knowledge that lead to the Bomb that lead to the Cold War. Its a little-known fact that the Cold War resulted in the end of the world back in 1984. Now the full story can be told. New Zealanders were unimpressed with the Cold War in those days; the wars they had been involved in were hot, and, proud of their antinuclear legislation, they thumbed their noses at the superpowers and felt in no danger from the games those powers were playing. So, isolated deep in the South Pacific, they got on with the serious business of playing rugby and raising sheep. Not so this Kiwi. In the early 80s I was living in Northern California and making a good living collecting wild fungi, mainly chantrelles, from the forested hills, north of the Napa Valley. I had found a good market in the upmarket restaurants in the Valley. I would spend my day enjoying getting lost in the wilderness, and find my way back by instinct and the lay of the land. Tools of trade were a large bucket, a sharp knife, a small paint brush for brushing the leaves off the shrooms, and a roll of paper to place between the layers. Deep in the forest I would look for the Madrone trees that chantrelles were often associated with, and would usually fill my bucket after a few hours of hunting. The locals in the Napa were not as fortunate as the people downunder. They were very aware that Soviet missiles were aimed at them, designed to explode a nuclear device in the air above them. If the unthinkable happened, by accident or by crises, and they happened to be near a radio or TV, they could get 10 minutes warning. November is the Fall and because of the layer of damp leaf litter, I could move through the forest without making any sound. The silence in those woods was deep and profound. Any unexpected sound was very loud indeed; the sudden scurry of a squirrel, the cry of a blue jay, the rat-a-tat of a wood-pecker, or even the snuffle of a black bear. One mid-November day I had been hunting for a couple of hours under a low, grey sky. I was feeling I belonged there, that I was at one with my surroundings, and was thinking it was good that in harvesting the fruits of forest, I was doing no harm to fungus, and it would fruit again next year. Suddenly there was an ear-splitting explosion above my head. I knew at once what it was. I put my bucket down and looked around, wondering from which direction the trees would get knocked down. The thoughts flashed through my mind. The feeling was gratitude for the fortunate

life I had had, that I had no dependents, and I should be satisfied to go. And so the world ended. Then a new one began, so fresh, so exciting, a few moments later. That evening I learned that the space shuttle, returning from Space, had been diverted from its planned landing site in Florida, and had instead, landed at the nearby Edwards Air Force Base. As it came into land, it broke the sound barrier. I thought that the pilot was probably far too busy flying that big bird to even notice that the world had ended that afternoon.